


A Vanishing Flame

by CreativeWords



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, NOT JOHN
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:22:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreativeWords/pseuds/CreativeWords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death, the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. George Gordon, Lord Byron. John Watson is learning to move on after the Fall when cancer survivor Mary Morstan enters his life. This is my attempt to reconcile ACD canon with the BBC timeline regarding John's marriage. It started as an intellectual exercise, but I've already taken Mary to heart, and I hope you will, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Flu season was a wretched time to be a G.P. John Watson had been coughed on so many times today it was a miracle he wasn't already hacking and feverish himself. He took the next chart from the holder and opened the door to the exam room, listing off the symptoms as he stepped through.

"Fever, muscle pain, fatigue, congestion, some vertigo when standing too quickly. Well, Miss… Morstan, I think we can sort this one out well enough."

He looked up, and into the greenest eyes he had ever seen. They belonged to what appeared to be a very attractive ginger lady, but it was hard to know for sure as she'd covered the bottom half of her face with both hands.

"Oh my god!" Her exclamation was muffled by her fingers and sounded nasally, but those green eyes made up for it. They were sparkling like a child's at Christmas.

"Sorry?" John said, smiling in spite of himself.

She lowered her hands to reveal a radiant smile. A giggle escaped, but she immediately composed herself. "I'm so sorry. What a way to make a first impression. You must think I'm still in primary school. It's just – you're John Watson. _The_ John Watson."

"Yes, I suppose I am," John said, eyeing her more closely. Despite the feverish tinge to her cheeks, she looked a bit wan, and the bags under her eyes were not the result of a few hours of flu symptoms her chart indicated.

She'd caught his look. "I'm not crazy," she said. "Though I know it has to sound like it. I swear I'm not crazy, though. I've got cancer."

"Oh-"

"Well, _had_ cancer. Six months in remission." She raised her hands in a celebratory jazz motion. "But flu symptoms and acute myleogenous leukemia –"

"Look remarkably similar," John finished for her. "So you'll be wanting bloodwork along with the flu swab."

"Yes," Mary said. "My doctor is on holiday, and to appease my dear sainted mother, I chose to come here. I had no idea I'd be meeting _the_ John Watson."

"You keep calling me that," John said, crossing his arms and rocking onto his heels. "Why?"

"Oh, Dr. Watson, I was one of your biggest fans. Sherlock Holmes and that blog of yours got me through my last round of radiation."

John felt the words like a wall slamming into his body. It had been a year since… and no one had mentioned his blog in at least eight months. The world had moved on. He had moved on. He wasn't prepared to hear Sherlock's name thrown about so casually – the way one talked about someone on the news, or the latest Doctor Who episode.

"Well," he said, his throat dry. "Always nice to know someone's reading." He rummaged on the counter for the throat swabs. "Open, please."

Those green eyes above the purplish shadows widened. "I'm so sorry. You've had a terrible loss, and here I sit, throwing it in your face."

"It's alright," John said, making a scribbled note on the chart that would be indecipherable to everyone, including himself.

"No, it's really not. He was your best friend. It must still be awful for you."

"Well," John said, flourishing the swab rather aggressively. "Time marches on , and so do we –"

"Don't give me that crap."

John stared at her. The words were delivered without heat, but with enough force to be felt, even with the rasp of congestion. She gave a slight smile and went on.

"I've spent four years now looking death in the face every morning. You don't just march on till it's all better. You march on because you have to, sure, but only until your legs give out and you find yourself flat on the ground, about three feet from where you started. And everybody stands and stares and says, 'but you said you were fine,' and asks why you aren't grateful enough for the good days." She met his eyes. "It's hell, what we've both been through, so don't pretend it's not."

She sniffled unceremoniously. John laughed, more to relieve the tension than anything else, and passed her a tissue. He ran a hand over his jaw as she blew indelicately and gave a croaking groan.

"You're right. It is hell." The words felt good to say aloud. They looked at one another for a moment. "Well, I'll take a quick sample for the flu test, and then get a phlebotomist in to draw some blood. How long have you had these symptoms?"

He asked the perfunctory questions and she gave the perfunctory answers. She'd felt feverish the previous evening. The congestion and aches had woken her up in the night. Her mother's daily check-in phone call had propelled her from under her blanket mountain on the sofa and into the clinic. John made notes, took the throat swab, and listened. Even with the flu, Mary Morstan had a magnetic energy about her. She laughed easily when describing her mother's concern, gave a self-deprecating impression of herself waking up at 4 a.m. with nose and eyes streaming. John found himself delaying calling the phlebotomist.

"Well, I'll get this swab tested right away, but I think we know the results already," John said, holding up the vial with the throat swab inside. "Once we get the blood, it should be –"

"A minimum of two days, but up to a week," Mary recited. "I've had it done a time or two."

They shared a smile. "We'll call you as soon as the results are in. Do you want them sent directly to your primary doctor?"

"Does that mean I won't get to see you again?"

He blinked. Her tone was light and teasing – maybe she was actually flirting, maybe not. He drew breath to speak twice before settling on, "Well, not in the clinic at least."

She laughed, a pleasant sound even if it ended on a cough. "I was hoping for more of the famous Watson charm." He raised his eyebrows, but she seemed to be expecting that. "You tried to be modest on that blog, but I can see why Sherlock couldn't keep track of your girlfriends. A face like that, brains _and_ manners to boot – half of London could be at your feet."

"Yes, but you also know I can't seem to keep a girl. 'Confirmed bachelor,' apparently," John said, taking a slight step back. She was direct, but not brash, and deserved as much in return.

"That's because they were all idiots."

The phrasing was so… familiar that John laughed in spite of himself. Mary took it as encouragement. "They were! They expected you to be just another average bloke. And you couldn't or wouldn't try and juggle two equally important relationships at once. No wonder those relationships didn't work out."

"Did you study psychology or something?" John asked, feeling rather defensive.

"No, I've just seen a lot of people making bad choices – may have made a few myself along the way. And I've got a very faulty censor these days." She laughed apologetically. "This whole appointment has been one inappropriate blurt after another, hasn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know." John shrugged. "There wasn't anything out of the ordinary about getting the throat swab."

"Good, then," she said. "If the results of the bloodwork take longer than three days, send them to Dr. Schaffer. Her information should be in my chart. She'll be back in town by then."

John nodded and wrote it on the paper in front of him before placing the chart on the counter and moved toward the door, holding the vial with the throat swab.

"I hope you start to feel better soon, Miss Morstan. I'll test this and prescribe something if it's positive. Pleasure meeting you."

She nodded, beaming again. "Oh, the pleasure is mine, I can promise you that. I wasn't kidding earlier. Your blog was the only thing I had to make me want to get up some of the worst mornings. In a way, you and Sherlock have already saved my life."

"Well, it's an honor to hear," John said. He reached for the doorknob.

"Dr. Watson," Mary croaked.

He turned at once.

"I may never get a chance to say this again, so I want you to know I believe you. I know you were telling the truth." She looked suddenly sheepish, but forged ahead. "I even did my share of posting those 'Believe in Sherlock' posters last year. It was one of the first things I did after I got discharged from the hospital. I completely believe in Sherlock Holmes, the impossibly brilliant detective and in the impossibly brave, long-suffering John Watson. It's all too incredible and all too real to be fiction." She sucked in a deep breath. "And I'm truly, truly sorry for your loss."

There was a knot John wasn't even aware of anymore that loosened as she spoke. It was like being able to draw breath for the first time in a year.

"I hope the results come back after three days," he said, rather stupidly.

She cocked her head, expression suddenly anxious.

"Then if I want to see you, we won't be doctor and patient anymore."


	2. Chapter 2

"Mary Morstan."

The voice on the other end of the line was distracted. John sat on the end of his sofa and winced.

"Yeah, hi… er, this is John Watson. We met at the clinic last week."

"Oh, hello!" Her voice had warmed perceptibly. "You know, we're going to have to come up with a better story to tell the kids."

"Sorry?"

"I'm thinking thwarting an attempted burglary. Or maybe pulling me out of the way of a speeding car."

"Uh –"

"No child wants to hear 'Mummy and Daddy met at a clinic when Mummy was looking like Death's two-day-old gravy."

She laughed into the silence on the line. "Honestly, John, I expected a little better sense of humor. No, that wasn't a proposal."

"Really? That's disappointing," John said, relaxing into the couch. His smile was actually straining the corners of his eyes, a feeling he'd not experienced in months.

"Oh?"

"Well, that _would_ have been a good story for the kids."

They both laughed. John rather liked the harmony of sound.

"Well, before we start paring down the guest list -" he began.

"My great-uncle Josiah is _not_ invited, no matter what my mother tells you about his war service," Mary interrupted.

"I'll keep that in mind. But honestly, don't you think we ought to at least try dinner first? Tomorrow night? What do you think – Chinese or Italian or Thai? Your choice. I'm pretty familiar with the restaurants."

"Not much of a cook, I take it?"

"Never got the knack for much past a bacon sandwich or a good cuppa."

"Well, good," Mary said decisively. "I'm only a passable cook, and I think it's just disgraceful that it's the thing now for men to be gourmet chefs. Makes a girl terribly insecure."

"I've never been one to keep up with fads, anyway."

"Right, then. I say Chinese."

"Wonderful. I'll pick you up at 6:30, then?"

"Make it 7. I have a student till 6:15, and I need time to primp."

John smiled at that. "Student?"

"Piano student. My mum owns a music shop just off Vauxhall Bridge. I play shop girl part time and teach piano in the back room."

"That sounds interesting."

"You're a dreadful, dreadful liar, John Watson. I might as well be a nineteenth century governess."

"That actually would be interesting."

They laughed again.

"And shall we plan on seeing a film after?" John considered. "I don't even know if there's anything playing."

"Leave that to me, then," Mary said.

John could hear the mischief hiding in her eyes through the phone. "Am I going to regret that decision?"

"You'll have to wait and see, John."

 

He didn't regret it.

She'd managed to find a screening of _From Russia, With Love_. They sat in the back and spent half the movie whispering and laughing like teenagers. The older gentleman two rows in front of them actually turned around to shush them twice, which only managed to send them into even louder giggles. Mary, it turned out, was the perfect film-watching companion. She mocked just enough to be funny, gave commentary just enough to be interesting, and jumped just enough to prove that she was, after all, still enthralled with the film. And when he slipped his arm around her shoulders, she relaxed against him so familiarly it made him feel homesick, as if this moment ought to have happened a hundred times already in his life.

It was after 2 a.m. when they finally arrived at her doorstep. They kissed good night, a lovely, lingering kiss that promised a fire not yet kindled. She gave him a gentle push away and promised to dream of him, but sleep was, at the moment, her first love. John had only gone two blocks when his phone chirped.

_Missing me yet?_

_Yes._ He hesitated, then added, _Shall I come back and fix that?_

_Steady on, soldier. Why don't we make plans to see each other tomorrow?_

John smiled. _Almost as good. When?_

 

It took less than a week for Mary Morstan to become a fixture in John's life. He met her at the door of the music shop of a morning with two cups of coffee and doughnut holes, which she'd confided were her favorite. She called during his shifts at the clinic and left absurdly long voicemails for him to listen to between patients. Interesting ones, too, like the tale of the boy who was so nervous about his approaching recital, he'd stolen his mother's makeup and tried to convince her that the lipstick splotches on his face and hands were an allergic reaction to the piano keys, or the unexpectedly heated debate she'd had with a cellist about the merits of chrysanthemums, which were her favorite flowers.

On their third officially panned date – five days into their relationship – John nearly broke an ankle hopping a railing to hail a passing flower-seller because he'd caught a glimpse of a large, orange chrysanthemum. He limped back to where Mary stood, doing his best to ignore the obviously suppressed giggles, holding the flower as some sort of trophy.

"10 points for enthusiasm," she said, taking the flower and bringing the petals up to her cheek. "But only a 6 for style."

"Well, I don't make a habit of vaulting railings."

"Really? How shocking. And here I thought you were a habitual vaulter."

"Well, not since I stopped chasing criminals around London."

He had progressed to the point that the memories evoked a tired sense of loss, rather than a sharp pain. The realization was comforting.

"He didn't believe in going round?"

"Not when there was a more direct route available. Shortest distance between two points, that was Sherlock. Drove me mad."

The words came out with just an edge of impatience, even as he laughed. John instinctively tightened up, closing himself off from the expected reaction. His crap therapist had told him all those months ago that it was a sign of healing when he remembered the annoyances again. What she'd never seemed to grasp was the fundamental fact that expressing irritation toward a dead person garnered nothing but awkward pity from others.

"I always thought that was a great thing about you, John. You got annoyed, but you kept going. I remember telling my mum that that was the sign of a true soulmate – when you can tell someone they're being stupid, and then go right along with them."

"Soulmate?" John balked.

"Brother-in-arms, then. Best friend. Whatever word you want to use. No, I don't think you're gay," she said, leaning up to kiss him. It was a deep kiss, and when she pulled away, he followed her lips to steal one more peck. "See? But you can have soulmates you don't shag, you know."

John steered her further down the street, arm around her shoulder. "Not according to the tabloids."

She stopped and turned to face him. "If you're the sort of man who gets his worldview from the tabloids, we're finished here and now."

He laughed and shook his head, well aware of what she was doing. Telling him that it was alright. Whatever the word was for what his relationship with Sherlock had been, whatever the rest of the world, even his sister, was determined to believe, she wasn't measuring him by any standard but her own.

"I know what it's like to live with ghosts, John," she said, answering his look. "But what I refuse to do is make myself compete with them."

He drew her in for another long kiss, neverminding the rest of the traffic on the sidewalk. Her hand slid up behind his neck. He angled his head, letting the passion flow smoothly past the point they'd previously explored. When they broke apart, he had trouble catching his breath. Her eyes were slightly unfocused. He smiled down into them.

"Trust me, Mary. You're not competing with him."


	3. Chapter 3

John considered it a sign of his commitment to Mary that he agreed to go to her students' piano recital without complaining once. He had no particular affection for piano music, and a deep-seated dread of the sound of a tortured instrument after a childhood of his sister's flute recitals. And Sherlock's violin mangling when Mycroft was being annoying, or he was simply bored. He didn't mention that reason to Mary – just Harry's flute and a corporal in Afghanistan who'd won a harmonica off an American in poker. Still, he'd made the anecdotes into jokes, donned his jacket and tie gamely, and picked up a dozen red roses for Mary on his way to the auditorium they'd rented for the occasion. He managed to dodge most of the parents and settle into his seat after answering only a handful of "which one is yours?" questions with a dry, "the teacher."

He hadn't thought much about what Mary's students would be like. Some of the names in the program he knew from anecdotes – Peter Fleming, the nervous boy; Gina Price, the 16-year-old who actually had a shot at achieving her dream of being a concert pianist; Timmy and Terry Trewlaney, the twins who, going by their names, must have done something in utero to piss their mum off and, going by Mary's stories, had never kicked the habit. But when the first little girl stepped onto the stage, John's plastered-on smile slipped. She was a little thing, surely no older than six, with dark eyes that were giant in her papery-pale face, accentuated by the brilliantly pink kerchief she had tucked over her hairless head. John the doctor steeled himself. The little girl would be unlikely to see seven. Something in her expression told him she knew it, too. But there was a spunky bounce to her step as she made her way to the piano, a definite dramatic flair to the way she seated herself and placed her hands. She turned her head to where Mary stood in the wings and got a nod and mouthed message John couldn't quite make out. Whatever it was made her giggle before composing herself for a solemn rendition of Morning Has Broken.

Mary walked on stage after the applause died down and gave her radiant smile.

"That was Harriet Granfil, starting off our evening so beautifully. Welcome to Mary, Mary Quite Contrary Music Academy's annual recital."

The audience applauded once again. John managed to make himself do the same, though it took an effort. John was acutely familiar with the concept of soldiering through something. He recognized it in the set, determined smiles on the faces of many of the parents. What he wasn't prepared for was the joy in the room. Mary's clientele was not exclusive to cancer patients, but there were more than a fair few shaven heads and wan faces parading across the stage. The audience, whether by implicit agreement or prior arrangement, treated each performer with equal appreciation. There were no inordinate tears or cheers for the kids who were ill. Instead, it was a night that felt much like the recitals he remembered from his childhood. Parents swelling with pride, students cheering each other on. Normalcy. It was a powerful gift to any terminally ill patient, and John saw it given over and over as the night trilled on.

While the music was all endurable, and even enjoyable – Mary's teaching abilities were affirmed time and time again – John found it hard to focus on anything but her. She stood in the wings, a sharp image in her peacock blue dress and ginger curls, but was actively involved in each performance. From straightening Peter Fleming's bow tie to walking a quivering Jenna Marsters to the bench, to appearing at the side of a stage struck Terry Trewlaney to turn his piece into a duet, she was constantly focused, a moving well of energy.

Gina's concerto was the finale. John had received several voicemails about her – the girl reached a new state of being at the keyboard and could make a piano speak to your heart. Mary had never mentioned that she was one of the ones who wore a kerchief. She'd chosen a forest green one to match the embroidery on her cream-colored satin gown. The entire ensemble was a bit too formal for a private recital, but the girl wore it with the unassailable dignity of a queen. Mary hadn't overestimated her talents. The music shivered and wove through the air, creating currents of emotion that washed over the listeners. She was spectacular, there was no denying it. John saw Mary wiping her cheeks as the audience exploded in applause at the end.

Gina bowed demurely, then held up her hands for silence. "Well, this was meant to be the end of our show. We appreciate your support immensely, but I'm afraid we're going to trespass on your patience just a few minutes more. And for those of you with small children who are already groaning, trust me when I say you won't be sorry we didn't end on me."

John saw Mary's blush and smile in the wings, but didn't understand it until Gina continued.

"This is our first recital since Miss Mary got her clean bill of health from her doctor. Seven months cancer-free!" The audience burst into applause. Gina gave a smile that reminded John of Mary and let the thunder die out naturally. "We all were anxious to do her proud this year, as you can imagine. But, as it turns out, we students were not her only focus. In fact, most of us have picked up on the fact that our Miss Mary has been quite distracted lately."

John felt the tips of his ears warming. The few parents he'd talked to were turning to look at him with knowing grins.

"In fact, I happened upon her just three days ago playing some very unfamiliar music. It might even have been called love song¸ though for the sake of strict honesty, I will say it hasn't been marketed as such," Gina said, giggling. "All of which is a very long-winded way of saying that the final piece in our recital will be an original – and I believe untitled – composition by Miss Mary Morstan."

Thus far, Mary had only tinkered on one of the pianos in the music shop in front of him. It was enough to assure him that she was an excellent musician, but not enough to prepare him for this. Her opening chords were sprightly, a walking tempo and a bright, rollicking tune. She introduced a lower line, weaving in and out of the original melody. John felt his jaw go slack. It was them. His voice and hers. He had no idea how she did it, but the song was a conversation between them. It brought to mind their first date, the straggling, laughing walk up to her apartment door, the explosion of sound that was their first kiss. It was a memory in music.

It ended with a mischievous treble glissando and one bass note. John was on his feet as soon as her hands lifted from the keys, clapping so hard it stung his palms. It didn't quite matter to him that few others stood, or that their clapping, while enthusiastic, paled in comparison to the noise he was making. Mary stood and curtsied, but her eyes were searching the crowd for him. Her smile was diffident, a bit questioning. When she found him, he gave a whistle that might have deafened the people directly in front of him, but was entirely worth it for the way her entire face exploded with light.

He threaded his way through the crowd and practically elbowed several effusive parents out of the way so he could plant another composition-worthy kiss on her lips. Those closest to them tittered. He started to pull away, suddenly aware that he was snogging the piano teacher in front of her students, but her fingers intertwined in his hair, locking their lips for another kiss that left him almost trembling.

"You are magnificent," he said resting his forehead against hers.

He liked the fact that she blushed rather than retorted. He took her hand and pulled her toward his seat.

"I left the flowers here," he said by way of explanation, stealing another kiss as she looked up at the sound of his voice.

"You're lucky Timmy and Terry haven't spotted them, yet," she said.

"Timmy and Terry Trewlaney, terrors though they may be, are no match for John Watson when he's guarding gifts for his sweetheart."

"Careful now, John," Mary cautioned with a grin. "You're starting to sound positively poetical, and I don't know if daytime GP, ex-soldier John would take kindly to that."

"He'll have to," John said, presenting the roses with a slight bow.

"What, no chrysanthemums?" she teased, touching a red petal with an expression that could only be called wonder on her face.

"Miss Mary?" It was Gina, clearly shy of John's presence.

Mary turned and threw her arms around the girl. "Gina, you were stupendous. Absolutely stupendous. You had me in tears, love."

Gina blushed. "The audience was so into it – it was easy to match their energy."

"There's nothing easy or simple about what you do with a piano," Mary told her. "I felt awful following in your wake. But now you can meet the inspiration for the song. John Watson, this is Gina Price. Gina, John."

They shook hands almost solemnly, and Gina gave him a searching look he didn't quite understand. Mary kept her arm almost protectively around Gina's shoulders.

"Gina and I did one round of chemo together last year, John. Oh, you should have seen us when Gina's mother brought in a little electric keyboard. I think we drove the nurses into hysteria by the end of the weekend."

"You wrote a song on it called… oh, what was it?" Gina asked.

"Oncologist Outrage. It was the day they said we wouldn't get discharged at the same time," Mary said, laughing.

Gina seemed to gather her courage. "Speaking of composing, I'm so glad you played your new song. Does it have a name?"

Mary turned her head toward John for just a moment. "I'm still working on a title. Maybe From Russia, with Love."

John chuckled at the look on Gina's face. Gina glanced at him, but didn't join in. It took him another breath to put the pieces together. Gina was afraid of what a relationship in her teacher's life would mean. Afraid of losing a woman who was clearly a pillar in her life in more ways than just music. Afraid, and yet, she'd pushed Mary to play the piece anyway. It was an act of unselfishness on the part of a girl who could be dying. It was an act he could respect.

"I don't know, I'd settle for something more direct. Like My First Date With John Watson." Both of them laughed. "What? Too direct? Suits me perfectly."

Gina started to step away, but John plucked a rose from Mary's bouquet. "Gina?"

She turned, confused as he held out the rose. "For me?"

John smiled. "You talked my girlfriend into giving me a present money can't buy. I know already that talking Miss Mary Morstan into something takes some doing. You must be a very special young lady indeed."

She hesitated, cutting her eyes to Mary, who nodded enthusiastically. "But you got those for Miss Mary…"

"They're not even her favorite flowers," John said, pressing the stem into her hand, careful to turn the thorns away from her palm. "Trust me, you deserve this."

Gina murmured her thanks and turned away, brushing the rose against her cheek. John smiled at the sight, contented in a way he hadn't been since… well, perhaps ever. He had been happy and contented often enough in his life – perhaps more often than most people. He thrived on the adrenaline and danger of the battlefield, and of the different sort of battlefield Sherlock had brought into his life. But this – this feeling that he wanted absolutely nothing so much as to be standing here, doing simple, mundane things and finding a tingle of that same battlefield feeling because she was standing there smiling at him – it was unlike anything he'd ever known.

"Sorry I stole one of your flowers," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders. "I can replace it, if you like."

She let a tear well up in her right eye. "That rose will mean the world to Gina. And you knew it would."

"I'm a doctor," John said. "I'm supposed to be observant."

She wrapped her arms around him and just stood, leaning against him so trustingly that it almost frightened him.

"You're magnificent yourself, John Watson."


End file.
